A/N: This feels like a lot of chapter for not very much action - just felt like I needed to set the stage for them a little, and that we needed some more exposition about their situation. Sorry if I missed the mark too much!
The sound of knocking wakes her, startled and disoriented. She shoves herself upright, feeling truly awful — she's slept hard, but is still in her clothes, which are wrinkled, filthy, and sticking to her; her eyes are gritty, and her body aches.
"I'm awake," she groans, padding to the door. She opens it to see him standing there, clean and fresh, in a button-down and slacks. She thinks she might like to punch him, just to relieve her feelings. He takes in the look on her face, and steps back instead of entering the room.
"The shower," he says, "Is all yours. I'll just put together some breakfast while you're in there. Everything you need should be on top of the dresser over there."
She turns to look, and sees a towel and washcloth; shampoo and conditioner, body wash and lotion, all in brands and types she favours. Feeling a little guilty, she turns back to thank him, but he's already retreated.
Sighing she goes to the dresser, opens drawers to find stacks of soft tees, leggings and yoga pants, fuzzy soft socks, sports bras and underwear. She shakes her head, but is too glad at the prospect of clean clothes to worry overmuch about how they got there, or when. Collecting everything she wants in a full armload, she ducks into the bathroom.
The shower stall isn't overly generous, but the water is hot, and the pressure still better than her crappy motel room. She thinks she should probably limit the amount of water she uses, considering, but it feels so damn good that she can't help but take her time. She leaves her hair to air dry to compensate, pulling on the soft new clothes that fit like they were made for her.
Opening the door, she follows the smell of food to the kitchen. He has his back to the door, stirring a pot on the stove — she notices that his feet are bare, and altogether, it makes a picture so incongruous with the Concierge of Crime that she laughs out loud.
He hears her coming across to the kitchen, but doesn't turn around, enjoying the last moments of the quiet domesticity he'd felt, listening to the shower run as he moved around the cozy kitchen. Then he hears her laugh, and his mouth twitches a little in response. He faces her, leaning against the counter beside the stove, and smiles at her.
"Something funny, Lizzie?" he asks, although he knows perfectly well why she's laughing.
"Sorry," she says, markedly more cheerful now that she's clean as well as rested. "I have just never pictured you cooking." She sniffs the air curiously. "Is that oatmeal?"
"Yes," he replies, "It is. A good breakfast is key to a successful day. And as for cooking, any creature that needs to eat should be able to provide itself with food."
She shrugs at him. "You can eat without cooking."
"I prefer to enjoy a well-put-together meal than to merely scrape by on the basics. And our takeout options are rather limited, at the moment."
She laughs again; she's almost forgotten that he can be funny. "It smells good," she offers, "Homey… Thank you."
She's not sure how to act now, now that the careful boundaries of their relationship have shifted and changed. In a way, they are closer to true partners than ever, but she no longer has any advantage, has lost even the pretense of control. It makes her uneasy, but she is grateful to him, she wants to get along. She just has to stay off the defensive, and hopes it won't be too hard.
He turns back to the stove. "You're welcome. There's coffee there," he gestures to a French press on the counter kitty corner to the stove. "Only creamer, though — no fresh dairy down here."
"Black's fine," she says, moving to pour herself a mugful. "Speaking of… do you want to tell me a little more about this place?"
"We can go through everything after breakfast," he answers, spooning oatmeal into bowls. "Raisins?"
"Um… sure," she says, uneasy again, bothered by the nagging feeling that this is all just an extremely bizarre dream.
"There's apples, too," he offers, bringing the bowls to the small, round table in the corner of the room and sitting down.
"No, thanks," she says, sitting across from him. "Maybe later… Okay, Reddington, this is just weird."
He cocks an eyebrow at her. "What's weird about breakfast? Aren't you hungry?"
"Of course," she answers impatiently. "But this… you, me, us, just sitting here, like… oh, I don't know!"
He sighs. "Lizzie, we're living here together for the foreseeable future. It may be a new situation for us, but there's no reason not to carry on as human beings. We have to eat — I simply thought it nicer to do it together."
She frowns a little — has she… hurt his feelings? Ridiculous, she thinks.
And yet… "It is," she finds herself saying. "Nicer, I mean. Thank you for taking the trouble to make things so comfortable. I guess I'm just not used to spending time with you that isn't…"
"Fraught with danger, violence, or terrible arguments?" he finishes, the humour back in his voice.
"Yeah," she says. "That's… pretty silly, really."
"Maybe," he answers, "But understandable." He looks sadder again, or maybe just resigned. "Eat up, Lizzie, before it gets cold."
In the spirit of cooperative living, she washes the dishes before demanding information again. He drinks coffee and watches her, wondering how she'll react to the situation, wondering how they'll manage together — will the tension finally break, and allow for real bonds to form, or will she fight harder, pull away, run from him even now… he can't read her well enough to be sure one way or the other.
"So," she says when she's finished, drying her hands and sitting back down. "Fill me in, Reddington."
"Can I ask you something, first? We're living together, counting on each other, it seems… could you stop calling me by just my last name? I'm not your asset, anymore."
She looks into his face, and wonders why she's been bothering to try and maintain the artificial distance between them.
"Sure," she says, "You're right… Red."
He smiles — it's a start, at least.
"So, I was a bit out of it last night. We're in 'Death Valley'? Which doesn't sound like a great place, by the way."
"Well, we're under it, anyway. Nevada desert," he answers. "At the north-east end of Death Valley National Park, there's an old mining town called Rhyolite. Built and abandoned in the early twentieth century. Much of it is government owned now, but some of the buildings are still in private hands. Including the railway station, which you saw last night, and which I managed to… acquire, some years ago. The surface entrance to this safe house is inside a grounded train car behind the station."
"We're hiding out in a tourist attraction?! Are you serious?"
"The station isn't," he reaffirms, trying to stay patient. "I said, it's privately owned — by me — and as such, is not open to the public. It's completely fenced off. The presence of other people in the area on a regular basis, however, makes a handy blind if we need anything dropped from outside. Much better than a place that no one ever goes."
She takes a breath and thinks about it. "Okay," she says. "I see your point. It's sort of… surreal being underground."
"This home is perfectly pleasant," he says, a little stiffly. "Let me show you."
Stepping to the kitchen door, he points around the circle of the main living area. "The kitchen, my bedroom, the bathroom, your room — you know all these now."
She nods, eyeing him cautiously. "I should say, thank you for the clothes and things. I didn't know that you… knew so much about me." She aims for diplomacy; thinks she's done okay.
He smiles. "It's my job to take care of you," he says simply. "Moving on, that closed door next to your room is a weapons room — more of a closet, really. Next to that is a small workout space — treadmill, weights, heavy bag in the corner — then an entertainment room, books, videos, that kind of thing. Beside that's storage — mostly food, emergency water, flashlights and tools — you know, supplies. There's also a small garden in there — herbs, a few microgreens. Compost. Then the entrance there, and we're back."
She looks at him, flummoxed. "Microgreens?" is the first question that comes out.
"No one should go for weeks entirely without fresh food, Lizzie. Besides, the grow lights are nice if you start to get desperate for sunlight. There's a grey water pump in the kitchen for watering."
"Okay," she says, thinking that he sure never does anything by halves. "Where does the power come from?"
"Oh, it's cutting edge!" he says, gleeful as a boy. "Underground solar power! Groups of fiber optic cables, coated in zinc oxide, run the sunlight down to a converter, and boom! Power!"
"Really?" she says, interested. "That's pretty amazing. Won't people see the cables, though?"
""They're all on the back side of the rail car, so blocked by it and by the station building, and they're close to the ground, too. Chances are pretty slim."
"Air filtration?" she asks, "The air seems pretty fresh in here."
"Of course," he answers, "There's a purifier, too, for the plants. We've got an Ethernet connection looped in from the ranger station in the Park, but we have to be sparing with it to avoid any noticeable activity. All the equipment, including backup batteries and water tanks, are outside the house — there's an access corridor all the way around for maintenance. You can get into it from the entrance hall. Oh, and there's an emergency tunnel out into the Park at the back of the armory — next to your room. Don't forget."
"I'd say, as always, you've thought of everything," she says. "I'm a little overwhelmed."
"Safety first, Lizzie," he says with a grin. "But comfort right after that."